


if our life is less than a single day

by Radiolaria



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alcohol, Banter, F/F, Fluff, Food, Mutual Pining, Pre-Season/Series 01, Public Display of Affection, Romance, Storms, Tumblr Prompt, very briefly so just to be safe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-04-25 03:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14370231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria
Summary: Michael and Philippa, across the years, across faces and adventures.A collection of prompts centering on Michael Burnham and Philippa Georgiou.





	1. no one could steer me right (Michael Burnham & Mirror Philippa)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Joachim Du Bellay's sonnet 113 of _L'Olive Augmentée Depuis La Première Édition_ , "Si nostre vie est moins qu'une journée", translated by A. S. Kline at [Poerty in translation](https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/French/DuBellayPoems.php#anchor_Toc247686069).
> 
> In this house, we proudly disregard the last minutes of episode 1x04.

“Commander Burnham, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Michael’s defiant answer is caught in her throat the moment the leather-clad figure strides past the bar counter into her field of vision. For the past fifteen minutes, Michael had been staring at the remnant of the least questionable drink she could order in the equally questionable back-alley establishment —market, cabaret, tavern, she could not tell.

Philippa was late, although Michael would venture to guess there is a perfectly acceptable excuse for the delay.

Michael swallows, her eyes trying to ignore the state of her, the silver earpieces, the toned naked arms, the high hairdo, the _peeking navel_. Her Philippa would have never donned such attire even in her wilder moments on shore leave.

Even in Michael’s dreams.

There is blood on Philippa’s cheek. _Not hers_ , Michael observes as Philippa uses her fingerless glove to wipe it clean, vaguely annoyed.

Michael gives her a long stern look that Philippa dismisses with a squint and hollow cheeks.

“I haven’t killed anyone. That you would care about. Yet.” Philippa steps into the space between the empty stools and Michael, canting her hips. “Why are you here?”

Michael empties her glass and grimaces as the last, bitter drops of spiked tea burn her throat.

“Are you disappointed to see me?”

“Is it the Federation or _you_ trying to see me?”

“This is all me.”

Philippa lifts her eyebrow, amused, and settles on the stool in front of Michael, raising a hand to order. Michael takes note of the absence of words exchanged before a drink, amber, strong, is immediately placed before her.

“There have been reports of violent disputes in the area, between Human parties and Klingons.” Her captain requested of Michael that she did not divulge too much of the incidents during her investigation ashore, but the request was made without knowledge of the expected source being the ghost of a Starfleet Captain who could bring the Quadrant to its knees on her day off. “People have disappeared. I was worried.”

Philippa tsks, but the way she bends her head towards her drink to gulp it down suggests she is hiding something, if it is only her reaction.

She is not angry at Michael for expressing concern over her well-being or activities. This is a start.

“This was not you, was it?”

“I had matters to attend on the other side of the Quadrant.”

“What kind of matters?”

“None of your business.”

Michael could laugh so petulant her tone is. There is a certain charm to her attitude, one that Michael thought had been relegated to centuries-old works of fiction, where criminals wore large-brimmed hats and tailored suits, where women wore tight clothes that still concealed deadly weapons. Michael’s eyes drift to the patches of skin revealed by the finely-wrought leather — is there a phaser waiting for her nestled between her breasts— and she shivers.

_She is not Philippa._

This is exactly the kind of dangers Sarek warned her about when he said Human novels would trouble her peace of mind.

Michael is troubled.

Yet she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes long enough to chase from her thoughts the shape of Philippa’s thighs, arrogantly strong and closely fit, spread on the stool.

“I am really not here on behalf of the Federation. In this Universe, there is this little thing called checking in.”

Philippa eyes her with what looks like hesitation, before putting down her empty glass and aiming a delighted snarl at Michael.

“You lie so terribly, Michael. There only way you could possibly know I was here was if you tracked down the illegal fighting ring I set up in the backroom.”

Michael snorts.

“Using the money made from the diamonds you stole at the Andorian bank last week! You were not subtle.”

Philippa does not hide her surprise, and Michael really should not find as charming as she does the wolfish, proud expression blooming on Philippa’s face.

“You knew. But you’d never guess how I recruited the fighters.”

“You did not recruit them. That’s indentured servitude, Philippa.”

Philippa’s tongue clicks. The gleam in her eyes is familiar, impish, and although the object of her enthusiasm is miles away from anything her Philippa would have enjoyed, Michael cannot help but see her lost friend there.  

“You say it like it’s such a bad thing.”

“It really is, Philippa. It is illegal.”

Philippa is beaming.

_Damn it._

“And morally reprehensible.”

Philippa sits back, shifting on her seat to rest her open arm on the counter, and tilts her head, eyes boring into Michael’s.

“How did you know it was me? You are remarkable, Michael Burnham.”

“I am good at what I do and it seems, thanks to you, that my competences will be used investigating gambling gangs and aborted coups meant to create a cash flow. Yes, Philippa, I know about Monaco too.”

“Any constructive criticism, Federation?”

“For the last time, I am not—”

Philippa is peering at her with an air of nonchalance more befitting to a minor electric malfunction during a late night shift than a darkened bar on the edge of the quadrant. Talk about competence.  And adventures. This feels like a holonovel. If Michael had hesitations about shielding Philippa from the consequences of whatever she had done these past months, they have vanished under Philippa’s confident smile.

Michael sighs and raises a hand for another glass of the dreadful mixture.

“How did you even manage to obtain the blueprint for the tunnels under the bank? They are more than classified. They are _lost_.”


	2. I am glad we are friends (Michael Burnham/Philippa Georgiou)

“I must advise you one last time against such an expedition, Captain. It might be dangerous.”

Philippa could swear that Michael, at the corner of her eyes, posture impeccable and focus unwavering, is suppressing a smile the strength of a dozen solar storms. It shines through her eyes, the tension in her legs, the colour of her cheeks, the slope of her shoulders. Philippa’s matching smirk is tricky to hold back.

“Saru, we do not have a choice.” Philippa drops the backpack on the surface where Michael gathered all the equipment needed for the trip and starts filling it carefully, trying to convey in her gestures the assurance her officer so clearly lacks. “I have calculated the risks and made my decision.”

“And it was the best decision the captain could make under the circumstances.” Michael secures one of the rakes on the floor and steps closer to Philippa and Saru.

The clutter of the shuttle is not helping Saru overcome his anxious concern, and Philippa is thankful for Michael’s solid trust in her, because she’d rather not fight everyone in these stressful times.

“I would even argue that ‘dangerous’ might not be the word to use in these particular circumstances. Paramount for the survival of the flora and fauna of the region. Constrained by a timeframe that does not allow leisure or hesitation. Presenting a few random parameters I cannot account for as of now.”

Lieutenant Saru makes such an incongruous face at Michael that Philippa has to dive into the climbing ropes to hide her hilarity for a minute. When she stands back up, face probably redder than acceptable for a Captain, Saru has retreated to the back of the shuttle, checking —and grumbling at— the comms they intend to use. Michael walks up to her with a silent question on the face.

“You can say ‘dangerous’, Michael.” Philippa smirks, detailing the Human Lieutenant before her, her formal stance contrasting with the fire in her eyes, however tamed by the argument, and the way her fringe falls into her eyes, such an odd choice for a scientist raised on Vulcan. “It really isn’t such a cursed word in our field of work, believe it or not.”

A sheepish glance for Saru answers Philippa at first, evolving into an irritated one quickly enough. Michael heaves a sigh and starts putting aside for transport the rope surplus Philippa has been using as cover.

“But it has a negative sense. I doubt my foster family would approve of us engaging is dangerous missions. A dangerous mission is one insufficiently prepared.”

“My first CO used to say a dangerous mission is one where ‘oh, crap’ becomes the go-to answer for disastrous situations.”

“A prudent advice. The away team should always keep focus and should not give in to panic.”

“No, I meant he was a stuck-up who couldn’t handle swearing.” Michael’s glance is unconvinced. “He could not care less about sending us on dangerous trips. We explore, Michael. We can never predict what we will discover and we can never completely assess a situation. But you are right: we can ensure our answer to unexpected situations is irreproachable. Besides, where is the fun in irreproachable?”

Michael drops the rope she holds, a faraway look on the face, and Philippa can almost see the logic working its way through the excitement that her eyes cannot disguise.

“There is a case to be made for the efficiency Humans display under pressure, Captain.”

Philippa bites her lip.

_This one is a gem._

“Oh, absolutely. Dangerous situation brings out the best in skilled individuals, I have found.”

An ironic eyebrow answers Philippa.

Note for later: Michael Burnham is caught up on the sarcasm.    

As Philippa and Michael finish packing the backpacks, an eye on the time left, Saru comes back to them, embarrassment twisting his body.

“Januzzi informed me the magnetic disturbances make the landing impossible, not if we want to be able to leave the planet afterwards.”

Not concealing her frustration, Philippa abandons the backpacks to Michael and walks to Saru, who stands immediately straighter. Pressure does work wonders.

“I thought Detmer made sure we could beam out.”

“To leave from the falls, yes, we made the proper adjustments.” Michael chimes in, eyebrows furrowed. “But we are not down there. We were not expecting the shuttle to encounter such issues.”

Saru clears his throat and looks alternatively at Michael and Philippa, as if assessing his chances.

“We do not have time to fly back to the Shenzhou, make the calculations, beam you down and walk up to the falls before the dam breaks, Captain.”

“I have figured that, Lieutenant,” Philippa bites back, immediately regretting her words as she sees Saru’s expression.

_He does not deserve to be at the receiving end of my shortcomings._

Michael’s face is drastically different, almost dejected, lips a thin line and hands tightly clasped behind her back; she was looking forward to the trip. If they cannot make it on foot, they’ll have to send an order to evacuate the villages, which would obviously break the prime directive. 

Philippa’s eyes roam the small shuttle for an answer, aimlessly at first, taking in the pickaxes Saru deemed indispensable, Januzzi’s back in the pilot’s seat, the backpacks all ready to go, until they fall on the ropes.

“Saru, do we still have the gears the time-travelers left behind?”

“The British soldiers from last week? We do.”

Michael is staring at her, curious, with a hint of excitement making her fringe tremble. Philippa’s smile widens.

“What do you know about parachuting?”

Michael doesn’t hesitate before bursting: “That I am glad you insisted it was a ‘must-experience’ on our last shore leave.”

Philippa gives her a stern look, although not stern enough to deter future use of sarcasm in dangerous situations. Michael will have surpassed the master in no time if she carries on the way she does.

“And everything I need.” Michael smirks, cockish. “I know everything we need.”

“You are sure?” Her eyes are trained on Michael’s, scanning the specialist for a trace of fear or bluff that would kill them.

But Michael nods, emphatically, cheeks rounded, eyes two smiling cracks. From where she stands, Philippa can almost hear her heart picking up a rhythm, tuned to hers.  

“Captain, this _is_ far too dangerous for you to—“

“No time, Mr. Saru.”

Michael is kneeling in a corner of the shuttle and already checking the parachutes gifted by their visitors displaced in time. Januzzi left the helm to watch over the frantic preparations and even he seems dubious of the change in plans and the agitation brought by the emptying of the backpacks to a reasonable weight. The atmosphere in the shuttle is electric.

Saru is too stunned to panic, which is comforting, and even has the presence of mind to order Januzzi back to his post so that he can position the shuttle for the jump. There is really a case to be made for danger and skills.

“Aren’t you concerned, Captain, that this… contraption might not be functioning properly. They are hundreds of years old!”

“Jira and I assessed them after the Humans left.” Michael is struggling to help Philippa in her suit and Philippa is grateful for the small stature of the British. “They are in perfect condition. We simply stored them here as they would be of greater use on a shuttle than on a spaceship.”

The Kelpien jumps on the spot, pointing an accusatory finger at Michael who shrugs and resumes putting on her own parachute.

“Ah! So she meant to use them from the start!”

Philippa raises an eyebrow at Saru, adjusting the googles on her face.

“That is what Sergeant Pims and Pond meant when they said that even in the future we could enjoy the pure feeling of skydiving, yes.”

“Captain!” The Lieutenant’s offended cry is barely audible as Michael opens the shuttle door and air rushes in.

Philippa and Michael take a step toward each other and, dutifully, go over their respective gears. Their movements are precise and swift, hands flying in an energetic choreography that reminds Philippa of swing. Recalling every bit of the training they took a few months ago for fun is a question of life and death, for them, for the entire region. Cheeks warm, Philippa feels on her face, then sees on Michael’s the effect of their excitement, their shared elation.

Michael’s smile… For that only, she is willing to take the leap. Damn danger, she would follow Michael everywhere with such fire in her eyes.

She would follow Michael on Mars and she hates Mars.

“I trust our chances,” Philippa shouts before Januzzi gives them the signal.

Philippa bows before Michael to let her lead.


	3. we are objects in the night sky outside of time (Michael Burnham/Philippa Georgiou)

Philippa inhales, tasting the air of the night, the way the scents tiptoe on her tongue in the dark, fresh and familiar. The high trees surrounding the East sanctuary, in reality four large burnt tiles in the middle of a patch of sand, are the only walls and roofs above her head tonight. This almost feels like Earth, even when her chest rises and falls under the gravity of a planet. Michael had said something about a high concentration of iridium in the morning that they should watch over, but the morning has not come yet. The night has barely fallen.

With a sigh, her hand retrieves the communicator buried in her sleeping bag and, in the mineral silence of the sanctuary, she checks the stations one after the other. Jira is still awake, answering briskly as if slightly unhinged by the absence of her tactical helmet, Januzzi blissfully snores, having hurled around the communication equipment for the better part of the day and Michael…

Michael is not answering.

Philippa props herself up on her free arm, the covers pooling around her waist and letting the chill air engulf her, but she is worried. Her breath comes hot against the metal of the communicator, fogging in the screen.

“Georgiou to Burnham. Are you receiving me? Is everything alright?”

A good thirty seconds pass, filled with silence and Philippa’s growing apprehension, before a heavy breath more or less lands on the communicator at the other end of the line and Michael’s voice rings in the solemn quietness:

“Burnham to Georgiou. Aye, Captain. Sorry.” Another breath and the shuffle of a sleeping bag travel to Philippa’s ear, reassuring. “I was watching the stars.”

Philippa heaves a deep sigh away from the communicator as she lies back on the warm tiles, not bothering to cover her shoulders since Michael’s brief disappearance gave her a rush of adrenaline she really ought to discuss with Katrina.

“Exploring, eh? You are not supposed to leave your post, Specialist.”

“The Arunian priest required of us to honour the stars by _sleeping in the night’s embrace_. They did not specify we had to stay at the sanctuary before sleeping.”

“True. But you ought to be sleeping for now. The ceremony tomorrow will begin early and run throughout the day. You’ll need that sleep, Michael.”

“I am also required as a xenoanthropologist to record as much as I can about this culture. And the Arunians worship the stars.”

Philippa rolls onto her back and secures her arm under her head, shifting to make the position more comfortable. This is a very lonely planet, in a very lonely galaxy, surrounded by a unique cloud of stardust, and as such the night here cannot be found anywhere else. Philippa cannot quite put into words how knowing such loneliness can bring such beauty affects her.

“Their sky is unlike anything I have ever seen,” she whispers, almost forgetting Michael is not right beside her, but, before she can repeat her words, Michael’s voice crackles out of the communicator.

“The promontory near the North temple offers a remarkable view on the forests and the sky. I feel like anything there is to understand about their sacred text can be fathomed at this point. I suspect the First Guides sat at this very spot when they wrote it.”

“Michael, you have far too much ambition for the night.”

“You are not sleeping either, Captain.”

_Touché._

“I was thinking about Ensign Narwani. Not every Starfleet member is made for away missions.”

“I trust her ability to assess her limitations. If she says she can handle these two days, she will handle them.” Michael’s voice is steady and, from the hours the commander spent with the young woman, Philippa would venture to call Jira Narwani Burnham’s protégée. “She has to be given the opportunity to experience away missions first before deciding she does not enjoy them. This is a low risk, short term commitment.”

“True. But I would not be a good captain if I did not worry about my crew.”

“That is why you have me. To keep you from worrying too much so that you can keep on being a good captain. And sleeping. Jira is more than ready for this mission. You are more than ready to sleep.”

What in the world will Philippa do when Michael will leave her to become captain, she wonders. It will happen soon without a doubt, too soon for her taste. Even Terral can see the commander’s exemplary career and they are in dire need of captains like Philippa, Katrina told her confidentially. They will appoint Michael to a brand new ship and introduce to Philippa another bright lieutenant on their path to captaincy. And Philippa will barely see Michael anymore. She will be alone.

This is why she is not sleeping.

“Do I need to wake up Januzzi to tell you a bedtime story, Captain?”

A chuckle escapes Philippa and she doesn’t even try to move the communicator away. Both their job is to keep the other from worrying too much: laughter is a token of comfort. Let Michael believe this night is as quiet and beautiful as it appears.

As it is.

“I’ll pass. Januzzi’s stories tend to heighten everyone’s sense of… whatever is the subject of his story, really.”

“I have to insist that the late night shift you walked on last time was not a satanic ritual. Despite appearances.”

“The fact you know enough about old Earth Satanism to draw comparisons is of more interest to me than the explanation of said appearances.”

“Telling stories has never been one of my skills, Captain.”

“You are a remarkable raconteur, Michael. Otherwise we would not be the last two awake chatting on away missions, again. Your stories stimulate more than they put to sleep. That’s all.”

Philippa can hear the pride in the transmitted breaths, the low chuckle earned by intimacy and confidence. Such controlled warmth emanates from Michael, even with the electrical distortion of the communicator. It’s like sitting beside an antique stove.

Philippa closes her eyes, fighting the urge to enclose herself in the feeling and disappear in it entirely for the duration of this night, let Michael’s voice guide her into sleep.

Keeping her, on the Shenzhou, with her, here, would be terribly selfish. She is the captain; she is the one to let people go.

“My foster mother would often mock me for my attempts at reading stories to my brother. I am not a storyteller.”

“Prove it. I dare you to tell me a story and not put me to sleep, Michael.”

Michael’s smile colours her words: “Is it an order or a challenge, Captain?”

“It’s an invitation.”

The sound of fabric against the ground indicates Michael is settling for the long haul. Philippa is ready to let her talk herself to sleep and if she can nudge her with a few pointers, she will. She is still the Captain.

In the dark, quiet night, Michael shapes a story about clouds and sails, a surprising subject for a Vulcan-raised child. Philippa suspects Michael is sewing into the fabric of fiction glimpses of her captain’s life, guesses and confessions made along the way, their way, together for six years. Philippa lets her sew: it brings them closer.

Captain and Number One. Philippa and Michael.

Philippa does her best to make them exist in this present moment and she is surprised at how easy it is, merely hanging onto the thread of Michael’s voice, the measured and low syllables she knows so well. The easiness of the task overwhelms her and keeps her awake, picturing Michael at the other end of the forest, similarly lying on the dark tiles, looking at the stars, whispering to her communicator as if it was a small animal.

Michael’s voice has faded in her mind, disappearing in the fabric of Philippa’s thoughts. Or maybe she fell asleep herself.

“Michael?”

Michael is not answering.

Philippa smiles. She cannot hear Michael’s breathing, but she imagines. She dreams.

“Goodnight, Michael."


	4. I will always have loved you now (established Michael/Philippa)

This could have been easily avoided.

Had the Andorians dealt with the blockade by themselves, had the Federation not organized a congress at the other end of the galaxy, had Anderson not intervened between two cocktails, had Philippa not insisted they talked to the local population first, each and every one of these steps could have been the last one before the situation got to what it was.

When the communication with Anderson and the Andorian leader is finally terminated, Philippa walks out of the conference room without a look for Michael, lips quivering and neck stiff, leaving her helpless and alone to close the maps and reports.

Michael allows herself one minute to breath, to analyse and understand what just happened. It is not their first professional disagreement and it certainly will not be the last, but the argument ran hot, quickly, in front of superiors, to the point where Philippa’s anger had turned menacingly cold.

Once her heart has fallen back to an acceptable pace, Michael’s steps take her to Philippa’s quarters, without hesitation. No argument should be left festering, even a professional one, although the closer Michael gets to her room the more unlikely it seems the source of her distress is purely professional.

Michael finds Philippa sitting on the bed, back turned to the entrance. Her head is in her hands, spread across her forehead, palms massaging above her eyebrows. Michael stills a few meters away, hands behind her back despite the intimate settings, unsure of what to do beside apologise for whatever went wrong. Her inability to pin down exactly where the exchange went wrong is a source of great confusion presently.

But Philippa does not need her confusion.

“Philippa, it was my duty as a First Officer to point out that such a course of action was unwise as it would negate the population’s right to determine their fate. I see now that my behavior hurt your leadership in front of Admiral Anderson and I apologise for not —“

Philippa is shaking her head in her hands, her silent disarray drawing Michael closer.

“Philippa?”

“You were not at fault, Michael.” Her voice is hoarse, calmer than Michael expected. “Not at all. It was me. I am an old fool.”

Michael carefully walks around the edge of the bed, needing to see her face in order to understand, but finding in her way instead the slippers she forgot to put aside this morning. The detail is minute and comforting, prompting her to bridge the gap and sit against Philippa on the bed.

“Your behavior was in no way inappropriate. If you judge you were too soft on me because of our connection, I can assure it did not feel soft.”

Philippa sneers under her hands, bitter.

“That’s the problem. I feel guilty.”

“For acting proportionately given the stakes and circumstances?”

Michael is still searching for her eyes. No matter how becoming Philippa’s bangs are, they can be used unfairly in an argument and deflection holds no charm for Michael.

“For being so rattled at the prospect of being tough on you. For my irritation over how professional you remained while I felt I was losing my mind in front of Anderson. For storming out as I did when the call ended. For—”

Philippa shakes her head and turns away from Michael, chin resting on her palm. Michael shifts beside her, looking down on Philippa’s hand resting on her thigh.

“Philippa, you can tell me.”

“I feel so repulsive when I do this, when I have to choose between you and the work. The possibility, greater with each day, that my —our— work could be compromised by affection is daunting. I am your superior officer and I have the power to hurt _you_ , professionally, _personally_. It should not be the case.”

_Oh._

“This is what you were talking about when you mentioned ‘power imbalance’.”

Philippa bites into her bottom lip, rather viciously, bowing away from Michael, settling deeper into a prostrate position.

The issue is a non-argument in Michael’s eyes, because part of her, the Vulcan part, trusts people —Philippa especially— to demonstrate the very same professionalism she strives for in her connections with people. And she trusts her own judgment to help her voice her concerns if ever Philippa was failing her in that aspect.

“Doesn’t feel too good, does it? You cannot keep the professional professional when you work with someone you— I hate putting you and me in this position in the first place. I don’t know how you look at me and don’t see someone who breaks every rule in the book.”

Michael lifts Philippa’s hand, gently, and turns it palm up before caressing her way down from the wrist. Her fingers find Philippa’s and interlace, deliberate, feeling the roughness of Philippa’s palm against hers, and when her fingers fold on Philippa’s knuckles, the thinness of her skin there. She increases the pressure, with intent, forcing Philippa’s attention back on her gestures. Touches are the way to her heart, Michael found. Telling means very little to Philippa, or rather it means everything, so binding are her words, and their use should be scarce.

Philippa looks up from their hands with a puzzled expression.

“I see someone who broke every rule so that she could be with me. It is the most beautiful sight and I have witnessed a few stars going supernova.”

Speechlessness takes over her features and Michael wonders if she has to amend her statement to include Philippa’s baffled face.

“I trust you and us to check our privileges, as colleagues, as _partners_. We must make room for sensible judgment in between rules. I know I do.”

Philippa fights the feeling for a second before yielding. Relief washes over her features as her hand squeezes back Michael’s.

“More like inside them. I am pretty sure Anderson _knows_ and is waiting to use it as leverage against Terral. We made a mess. It really isn’t pretty.”

“Love rarely is.”

Philippa’s hold stiffens in her palm, as it always does when Michael talks about love. Michael suspects their definition of the word does not align perfectly, but the discussions keep being derailed when they broach the subject and Michael lets it because they rarely have time for each other on this ship.

Philippa does not shy away from looking straight at Michael this time.

“Michael… I cannot give you forever. We are too far apart in life. And the last thing I want is to be a burden.”

Michael cannot help but pause before answering, drinking in Philippa’s delicate features, this close, this within reach. She is _allowed_ to discuss “love” and “forever” with Philippa and such a phenomeon is immeasurable. She is _allowed_ to love her even if it is difficult and finite. She is _allowed_ to touch her, now.

“I know this and I have accepted this. Statistically the majority of relationships do not last more than two years. I did not expect ours to beat records.”

Chances are Philippa will retire under ten years or move on to the Admiralty. She is not fond of admirals, so Michael has her doubts Philippa will choose this path. And Michael will choose the stars every time she can. She can do so while having loved Philippa as much as she does right now.

Philippa looks up and her hand flies to Michael’s face, tracing the curve of her jaw down and up to her lips, where Michael’s hand join hers, determined, pressing.

“Please, let me have this now,” Michael mutters under her breath before deposing a kiss on Philippa’s knuckles. “Whatever happens, let us have this now. Let us make sure we will always have these moments to cherish.”

Philippa will never be a source of regret for as long as Michael remembers her now, folded between her hands, willing to break rules with her, rattled and beautiful. It requires work, it requires putting aside all questions and considerations about a future together. It requires exploring their connection without a map, and sampling emotions and moments along the way.

Philippa is a dedicated adventurer and Michael a skilled scientist: the information collected will be immense.

“You are too lovely for words, Michael. You can have _now_ and everything inside, around, between.” Philippa’s smile feels a little wet on her cheek and Michael notes as she opens her eyes that they ended up messily intertwined on the edge of the bed, feet mixed on the floor, arms mingled, heads each other’s support. “I’ll even become a lovely memory for you, if you ask.”

“Good. But I would rather make lovely memories than talk about them,” Michael chuckles as she dives to capture her lips.


	5. five times Philippa Georgiou fell asleep on the job and one time she didn't

I.

Philippa wakes up in a start, mouth dry, disoriented and slow. For a few seconds, she cannot place where she is, what she is looking at and how she ended there.

A throbbing pain in her ankle makes itself known, clarifying the circumstances first: she tripped on a root and landed badly, sparing her comm link, but twisting her foot unnaturally. Michael and Saru dragged her into one of the caravans, which would explain the delicate structure of arcs and cloth she is looking up at. As for where she is, her bum is definitely on the wooden floor, where she remembers crawling after Saru left, her foot propped up on a carefully constructed bridge of supplies and bags, but her head is resting on something warm and soft, something…

“You are awake.”

Michael’s face enters her field of vision, considerably narrowed by pain, upside down and wearing an expression of concern. Philippa registers timid fingers leaving her hair and she suppresses a disappointed groan that she tries to disguise immediately as an almost question:

“I fell asleep.”

“Your sense of observation is as sharp as ever, Captain.” Michael’s lips stretch into a reassured smile and by the way her hands are still clutching to Philippa’s shoulders, it is evident the misadventure rattled her.

“I tried my best to keep you awake,” she whispers, apologetic, before offering Philippa a flask of water.

Philippa tries to sit straighter, if only to relieve the poor woman’s thigh, but Michael’s grip is firm, keeping her down while she gently lifts her head to allow her to drink. Philippa lets her, out of fascination for the scientist’s gentleness more than exhaustion.

“Did you try making terrible Vulcan puns?”

“That would have defeated the purpose of puns.”

Philippa snorts at Michael’s deadpan answer and shakes her head, feigning disappointment.

“Then you did not try your best.”

“I have been monitoring you the whole time.” Michael waves a medical device in Philippa’s face as an apology and Philippa feels a pang of guilt for chastising her so, but the banter is distracting her from the pain. “And Nambue approved of letting you sleep. He said you need the energy to face the hell he will unleash on you the moment you set foot on the Shenzhou.”

Philippa scoffs, letting her head drop against Michael’s firm thigh and swiping the water off her lips.

“He should scold me, the mountain chiefs are probably furious I could not see the Walk through. Wait, the Doctor diagnosed me from afar? I should be the one telling him off.”

Michael’s guffaw is the only confirmation she needs as to whether or not the snark helps. Of their own accord, her fingers are back to stroking the base of her skull in small circles.

“Januzzi has resumed the ceremony in your place, quite successfully if Saru’s last report five minutes ago is to be trusted.” Philippa is ready to protest when Michael preemptively deepens the strokes in her hair, causing Philippa to gasp and close her eyes briefly. “We got this. In the meantime, you should rest until the caravan crosses the belt and we can beam you up.”

“Why are you here and not helping Januzzi? You were so eager to meet the mountain people.”

Michael repositions herself under Philippa and for a second her face is incredibly close, the furrow in her brows wavering between concern and focus. The mixture of vulnerability and efficiency is breathtaking on Michael’s features.

“I did not want to leave you alone,” she quietly says, her eyes peering into Philippa’s, unreadable.

Philippa raises an eyebrow at her, wondering if there is a protocol to follow for Seconds who don’t want to leave their Captain unsupervised over a sprain ankle. There is not enough snark in her body to help with that.

Michael breaks eye contact to rummage through her satchel and extract a communicator.

“You should rest so that you can scold Nambue later.” Michael’s voice is soft, belying the sarcasm of her words.

Perhaps her narrowed field of vision has nothing to do with pain, Philippa reflects, eyes glued to Michael’s calm features, slow mind occupied by the way her First officer seems in no rush to go anywhere for the moment, comfortable with a cranky Captain in her lap.

“You make a hell of an argument for resting, Number One, I’ll give you that.”

 

II.

It is objectively the most boring conference Philippa ever attended. Eyes sweeping the amphitheater, she counts no less than three dignitaries and two captains whose bowed head is suspiciously still over their notes. Two more are shamelessly snoring, eyes closed and arms crossed over their chest, leaned back on their chair.

Admiral Gaïus Malherbe doesn’t seem to have noticed.

Her eyes are starting to sting under the dim light of the grey and blue hemicycle, to say nothing of the waking hours weighing on her lids. She vastly overestimated her capacity to complete her regular shift before attending the conference in the evening.

Something is poking at her arm. She looks down and finds Michael’s pen cautiously prodding her elbow from behind her. Philippa turns her chair toward her Number One stretched in her direction, but before she can whisper anything a note finds her hand and Michael sits back into her chair, expression unreadable.

In the middle of the room, Malherbe is still soliloquizing and Philippa heaves a sigh before unfolding the cafeteria menu on which Michael wrote.

_You can take a nap. I will take the questions if ever Admiral Malherbe remembers this is an exchange._

Philippa almost swivels to reward Michael with her best astonished face, but Michael’s poker face in conference is not an opponent Philippa feels strong enough to take on presently, so she scribbles instead _you got as little sleep as I did and took the same shift_ and throws the note under her elbow to Michael.

She hopes her blind aim with armchair disadvantage is as good as she remembers otherwise Captain Reeves is in for a surprise.

The answer lands quickly enough in her left hand, and, with her arms folded across her chest and leaning deep inside her chair, Philippa is quite sure Malherbe does not suspect a thing of the exchange, if Malherbe is not himself sleepwalking at this point.

 _I took an extra nap during dinner break while you were flirting with Admiral Cornwell, respectfully, Captain_.

Philippa schools her face down while writing and tossing her hasty, but hopefully sarcastic _it’s not flirting. It’s public relations. Do you want the Moon mission or not?_

Michael takes a little more time to answer and Philippa wonders if the note found Reeves’ lap instead, although the way Malherbe is mumbling even they are probably dozing off as well. On sight, head count is at twelve attendants sleeping.

 _I would rather you put those people’s skills to better use after the conference._ Philippa cannot help but smirk at Michael’s words. _You need to be rested and alert to argue your case for the Betazoid. Take a nap now._

Imagining Michael’s face as she receives her _my idea of using my “people’s skills” after conferences is not chatting up Admirals_ almost distracts her entirely from Malherbe’s gesticulations in the middle of the room, although perhaps she really ought to pay attention because why would a discussion about whales entail furious arm wheels?

Philippa is too tired to startle when instead of the expert and minimal touch of Michael’s fingers as the note is passed she feels a hand on her shoulder and Michael’s breath in her neck.

“I have your back.”

With the agility and lightness of a bird, her hand presses against the base of Philippa’s skull, precise and demanding, pushing her forward and Philippa follows the impetus, as if under a spell. She leans on her elbows, palm shielding her eyes as she pretends to read her notes and steals a glance under her armpit at Michael, already back to her place, with a straight face worthy of praise.

The last thing she sees before closing her eyes is Michael’s legendary conference poker face conceding a tender twitch of the lip.

 

III.

Contrary to many of her colleagues, Philippa Georgiou enjoys inventory days. She takes irresistible, childish pleasure in crawling down corridors to reach parts of her ship only a few engineers get to see. In the cyan darkness of the maintenance ducts, she feels the purring of the engines under her hands, scrubs the pipes helping the Shenzhou soar and scratches the back of a beast beautifully loyal.

What she does not enjoy is the paper work she gets to carry around all day long, as she insists on doing most of the review in person. Typically, a captain would walk through the different sections of the ship and receive the reports from the officer in charge of each, but since Philippa wants to get dirty, she drags her PADD with her in the most unlikely places and checks until she drops.

Generally, not literally.

The circumstances are quite exceptional as she took last night’s gamma shift in order to survey a particular celestial phenomenon, her morning run was considerably lengthened and accelerated by the detours she had to take for the maintenance prep, and an unexpected feathered visitor came in through their cargo bay and had to be evacuated manu militari. As a consequence, she finds herself falling asleep upright, dead on her feet in one of the ship’s overheated corridors while Jira Narwani is conscientiously recording a panel’s performance.

She absolutely cannot go further today.

“I think I am done.” Philippa blows the air out through her pursed lips and leans against the nearest wall, welcoming the familiar roar of the ship resonating in her chest.

“Captain? Is everything okay?”

“Don’t mind me. Just give me twenty minutes.”

Jira hurries back to her, incomprehension overtaking her features.

“In the shielding system west corridor?”

Philippa hums in answer and slides down to the floor. Her internal clock is a source of great pride and if she decides she’ll sign off for twenty minutes, she will stick to it.

“For what, Captain?”

“A power nap.”

It always surprises Philippa just how expressive the Ensign is when she is not wearing her tactical helmet and presently, she is flabbergasted. Justifiably.

Philippa is too damn tired.

When she finds her tongue, Narwani sounds as if Philippa has just turned into a lizard before her very eyes. “Captain…”

Jira Narwani looks at her with big, slightly terrified eyes.

“Perhaps I will call Commander Burnham.”

“Oh, don’t bother her.”

“I think I will, respectfully, Sir.”

Philippa chuckles, bringing her leg against her chest and resting her head against the hot surface, proof of her ship’s well-being.

Michael must be buried in paperwork herself, probably at the rear-end of the ship, although if everything went as well as last time she could be fighting with Commander Mouton over hygiene protocols again and Narwani will do her a favour by interrupting them. Michael’s former direct superior officer has a way of getting under her skin that even Saru has not achieved yet.

Yes, maybe bring Michael. She needs me.

As Philippa feels herself slipping into limbo, she catches Narwani’s despondent and already distant sigh.

“If only to get you to a bed and kiss you goodnight. Apply for the Shenzhou, they say; divine vessel, they say.”

 

IV.

As mission goes, this is one of the fun ones. Low risks, delicious food, great clothes. It consists primarily of intelligence extraction that Michael is handling better than usual, thanks to a flurry of prep sessions conducted by Lieutenant Januzzi and Detmer. They’ve covered all the grounds, anticipated every turn of this eventful evening and expected every word from the galactic aristocracy they fooled.

But Philippa doesn’t expect the hotel to go on lock-down because of a loose pet jaguar.

The room isn’t theirs; it’s the first one the employees shoved them into before scurrying away in search of other guests. Perhaps Michael and Philippa should not have wandered away to watch the stars from the second floor in the first place, but it did help with their cover and it does not need to end up in their report.

When Philippa finishes the communication with a very high-strung Saru, Michael questions her silently, looking up from the luxurious sofa where she is sitting, flicking through a brochure that details local museums.

“We’re good. The crew does not need us for now either, they are preparing to extract us the moment this is over.”

Philippa runs a hand in her hair, before stretching her arms over her head. She’ll have to thank Lieutenant Gant for insisting she chose comfort over sparkles and, Detmer was right, recent technology really changed the game for backless dresses.

“Apparently, the jaguar has not attacked anyone and is currently taking a dip in the swimming pool. We should rest before coming back to the Shenzhou.”

She drops into a comfortable-looking, although gigantic, armchair and squints her eyes shut, immediately pulled back to reality by Michael’s voice.

“Philippa…”

A groan escapes her.

What is it now…

“Dr. and Mrs. Trelundar would take the opportunity to rest, Michael. This won’t interfere with the mission.”

“Well, Dr. and Mrs. Trelundar would employ this time much differently if the backstory Lieutenant Januzzi thought out is anything to go by.”

Philippa cracks an eye open and by the way her Commander is sitting, nonplussed, relaxed, it’s impossible to tell if Michael is pulling her leg, which may well be the last proof she needs to demand rest.

“Do you object to any of the details he imagined for the parts?”

Michael sits straighter, facetious at last, and Philippa thinks thank Gods, it sounded she was flirting for a second.

“I object to the obvious pleasure he took in elaborating this story.”

“Isn’t it flattering that he imagines you as an award-winning scientist in a field that doesn’t exist yet?”

Pushing herself off the sofa, Michael walks to her, steps heavy, pout concerned, offering a hand that Philippa instinctively grabs as she relinquishes the cushions.

“Captain, you are a trophy wife in this story. How do you not take offense to that?”

“I can handle it.” She smirks recalling Michael’s embarrassment at trying to come up with appropriate nicknames. “Why are you complaining again?”

Michael tugs her toward the bed in the middle of the room, an extravagant cream-coloured oval.

“I meant to say: there is a bed, you should sleep on it.”

Philippa makes a small _oh_ with her mouth and Michael does not try to hide just how much she enjoys her surprise.

The bed is unbelievably soft when Philippa lowers herself on it, the cover fresh and deep, with only a hint of the expensive perfume she associates with those hotels. The guilt she should feel over the thought of her crew stranded over the planet and waiting for a big cat to get captured vanishes the moment she kicks off her shoes and her soles dig into the silky fabric.

Philippa gets lost in the feeling until she notices the absence of movement around her.

“Michael…”

A hum answers her and Philippa opens her eyes to find her Commander engrossed in the reading of another brochure in the armchair Philippa vacated moments ago.

“You have been dancing for close to three hours now. Dr. Trelundar may not need sleep, but you do.”

Philippa pats the spot she had left for her Second and whistles, causing Michael to open and close her mouth, without a sound coming out.

They are even.

“To bed. It’s an order.”

By the time Michael has argued her mind into joining her on the bed, Philippa’s eyes have already closed and when the mattress dips beside Philippa, Michael lets out a surprised moan of pleasure.

“I know.”

 

V.

The captain’s chair is not comfortable.

Alone on the bridge of a moored Shenzhou, Philippa has been waiting for Kepler’s green light for almost an hour. The crew is excused for the night and busy celebrating in the lower decks with liquors and a few selected guests, all graciously authorized by Philippa. There’s no reason to drag them into one of Kepler’s bizarre communication experiments.

Her sleepiness is only making worse her awareness of the chair’s ridiculous architecture now that she has to wait for the sporadic signals in the half darkness. The temperature is ideal, the quietness is, the view over the galactic port surpassing them, but the chair is really not comfortable.

The pneumatic noise of the doors catches her on the edge of sleep and she turns to see Michael striding in with a bottle of thermos in hand.

“Michael, didn’t you know I was on watch? I know how much you enjoy having the bridge all to yourself, but it’s mine for tonight, Admiral’s order, sorry.”

“I enjoy having you on the bridge all to myself, Captain. But I was on my way to my quarters and thought you would welcome some tea.”

The thermos lid turns into a cup in Michael’s clever hands and Philippa rewards her with a pleased smile, beckoning her closer.

“Thank you, although I will be poor company if you stay; I am exhausted and Kepler is not seeing reason.”

Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Philippa follows Michael’s purposeful gestures as she unscrews the bottle and pours down the tea.

“I have advised you against helping with his project. The math says it cannot work.”

“Do you think this chair is uncomfortable?” Philippa blurts out and Michael’s hand stills midair with Philippa’s cup.

“I have not been given the opportunity to sit in it.”

“Much good may it do you. It’s so deep I don’t know where to sit. Who engineered this? It’s almost as if its goal is to keep us from falling asleep.”

“It would seem appropriate for a Captain’s chair, but I can ask Mr. Saru to have another one fitted to you. There is no reason you should be uncomfortable in your own chair.”

Michael is half leant on the seat’s arm and turns to secure the thermos close on the nearest console, when Philippa starts slipping out of the chair in her contortions. She stops herself from falling by clutching at Michael’s waist, toppling her over backward in her lap. Michael lands on her thigh with a surprised cry, arm held up to keep the tea from spilling, before sliding in the space between her legs and the arm of the chair.

Philippa grimaces. Michael blinks.

“I am terribly sorry, Michael.”

Michael seems at loss for a second, leaving Philippa wondering if laughter or exasperation will break the silence.

“This is… inexplicably comfortable,” Michael confesses as she leans back into the chair, making no attempt to get up from Philippa’s lap.

The way Michael is seated, there is almost no weight on Philippa’s thighs and her back is resting against the arm at a rather practical angle. It feels more like nestling than sitting, although if they were to spend a night like this their muscles might tell a different story.

“It is fascinating, Michael,” Philippa half teases. “But do you plan on releasing me?”

Michael’s jaws work and, to Philippa’s horror, a mischievous gleam forms in her eyes.

“You were saying the Captain’s chair was designed to keep the occupant from dozing off? Perhaps you did not take into account all of the factors. This feels cosy.”

And with that, she dives in to snuggle into Philippa, head resting on her shoulder, with her eyes closed to Philippa’s gaping mouth.

“Michael?”

“Shhh. I have an experiment of my own to conduct.”

Philipp snorts.

“Michael, I still have to answer Kepler’s call.”

“I don’t.”

With a sigh, Philippa puts away the forgotten cup and stretches an arm to pick her discarded jacket on the nearest console with the intent of folding it down to a makeshift pillow for Michael’s head. She shifts in the chair, trying to see if she can escape her trap without disturbing Michael, and, upon concluding there is no way out, she nudges Michael’s elbow aside and wrap her arm around her back, settling in for the long haul.

After a while, the controlled breathing against her chest slows down to a more relaxed pattern. Michael wasn’t lying when she said she was on her way to bed. Januzzi probably tried to get her on the dance floor and Gods know what Detmer decided what was on the Vulcan-Human exchange program tonight.

This is probably what prompted this in the first place. Michael deserves the rest and Philippa can feel gratitude engulfing her chest. She knows from experience Michael is comfortable with such intimacy; she loves giving, despite her reluctance to admit it.

Philippa just didn’t know Michael had it in her to seek it as shelter so openly.

Philippa smiles, amazed, tilting her head until her cheek grazes Michael’s hair, but a loud yawn forces her to look away.

Screw it. Let Kepler try and wake her up.

The first thing she’ll ask Kepler if ever he succeeds in sending his message using groundbreaking stealth technology is whether Starfleet would consider making the Captain’s chair just five centimeters larger.

 

+1

Philippa remembers long nights at the helm where falling asleep meant death for her, for the whole crew, for an entire village awaiting rations. As time went on, she delegated and the weight on her shoulders was not so great, yet the moral obligation to stay awake never left her and for a while accepting she did not have to stand sentry to her entire ship’s life kept her awake.

The lack of trust and the lack of sleep made her an unreliable captain.

So she taught herself to care less to be able to care better.

She learned to fall asleep when her body needed it, even if her mind did not want to, when flying conditions were less than ideal and after twelve hours caught in a meteoritic belt in search of a lost shuttle she had to trust Detmer, when every door had closed in their face and they were trapped and alone in the sun waiting for the rescue mission to pin point them, when grief demanded of her to stay awake and remember and mourn and rebuild.

Tonight Philippa will be a lesser Captain and not sleep.

Michael caught a bug on their last away mission, a mere cold that she would have treated as soon as they came back to the Shenzhou. But they did not come back to the Shenzhou soon enough; they wandered through humid drafts and endured swinging temperatures for kilometers before they escaped the ruins and by the time Nambue got his hands on her, Michael had been wheezing and coughing for hours.

Tucked in and propped up on pillows, Michael scrunches her feverish face, waiting for the improvement promised by Nambue’s injection. Her hand is clasping Philippa’s, with a strength Philippa thought her exhausted body incapable of.

“It’s not your job to be here, Captain.”

“It’s precisely because it is not that I am allowed to say that I want to.”

Her eyes are unfocused, opening and closing as she hesitates between fighting and sleeping. Inflamed bronchial tubes are a fiendish foe. It is not serious; Nambue argued his monitor should be enough to get Michael through the night, but Philippa senses it is important for Michael to have her awake by her side.

“Why?” Michael’s voice is so hoarse that Philippa has to sit closer to hear.

“You would do the same.”

“Not sure you would let me.”

Philippa chuckles softly, rearranging the covers around Michael.

“I did.”

Michael’s grasp on her hand suddenly relaxes and Philippa looks up inquiringly to find her staring back with an intensity rarely expressed between them. While holding up her gaze, bright even in sickness, Philippa reflects there is more meaning to be found in staying awake with someone than in sleeping with them and that Michael has granted her this privilege time and time again.

“You did,” Michael breathes, almost surprised.

“So, Michael. Will you let me stay?”

Michael flashes a lopsided smile to her and Philippa answers in nature, leaning in to caress her face, at first tentative, then savouring the effect it has on Michael.

“Always.”

Tonight she will not fall asleep.


	6. five times Michael Burnham ate dinner with Philippa and one time she didn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warning for brief Public Display of Affection is for this chapter.

I.

Philippa Georgiou does not invite her crewmembers over to her quarters for dinner, out of concern for fraternization first, but also because the Shenzhou is manned by a relatively small crew and rare are the occasions when they can all spare an entire evening for leisure.

However, over the past months, the senior officers worked hard to put an end to a tricky border issue at the outer edge of the quadrant and, most eager to express her gratitude for the work accomplished, the Captain holds a private gathering for which she endeavours to shift everyone’s schedules until they coincide for a night.

For that alone, Michael puts aside her personal preferences over the comfortable number of people to have in one’s quarters and presents herself at the Captain’s doors with a gift.

Yet the doors chime open to reveal a discomfited Philippa Georgiou, alone, boxing away plates and putting aside chairs.

Her smile illuminates her face the moment she notices Michael standing in the doorway where Philippa runs to meet her, volutes of savoury perfumes following her.

“Welcome Michael! I am sorry there was an unfortunate series of cancellation.”

As she greets her Captain and thanks her for the evening, Michael instinctively raises her hands to take Philippa’s, eyes shifting to the table, trying to locate the source of her Captain’s distress as well as the delicious smells.

“Michael, it’s Philippa here.”

“Philippa. What happened?”

Her Captain raises her hands in defeat and lets them fall on her thighs with a clap.

“In order: one of Commander Mouton’s experiments took an unexpected turn that she has to oversee for the rest of the evening. Lieutenant Januzzi wanted to be present for the also unexpected birth of his nephew on the USS Exupéry. Then Lieutenant Gant had a romantic emergency that Keyla Detmer is probably trying to help with as we speak. The Doctor had a medical emergency. Saru was the medical emergency. It is nothing serious, but Anton will have to update his research on Kelpien allergies. Ensign Narwani called in sick, but I am quite sure she was too nervous to have a small intimate dinner with her captain after learning everyone had bailed out. What’s your excuse for coming?”

Philippa ends her explanation with her fingers carefully intertwined, looking like she presented a plan to a room full of admirals.

She is teasing Michael, despite her annoyance, and allows Michael to see both. This is informal.

“I have a present and needed an occasion to give it,” Michael says, handing the neatly wrapped package to Philippa, who simply chuckles, her fingers caressing the aluminum paper.

Under Michael’s attentive eyes, Philippa opens her gift, her eyes smiling even before the distinctive ruffle of the conservation bag, tipped by her sense of smell alone.

“I made tea.”

This particular blend required many hours of work on the replicator since the day Michael received Georgiou’s invitation. No shore leave or stopover at a commercial port was scheduled soon enough for her to acquire a present, but the carefully concocted mixture, strong and coloured, sweet and soothing, seemed a more thoughtful and personal present.

It fits Philippa.

“I gathered as much, sorry for the lack of opportunity to go shopping. Thank you, I appreciate it very much, Michael. It does smell delicious,” she hums, before inhaling eyes closed over the box.

Much to Michael’s embarrassment, when Philippa holds her flavor-full accomplishment under her nose, Michael cannot not smell anything beside the tantalizing and elusive scents filling the room.

“Does that mean Ensign Connor will be the only one joining us?” Michael inquires as she follows Philippa to the living area. She accepts the seat offered, while Philippa goes back to the boxes on the table.

“About that… Major Shockley requested him for two hours. It’s just you and me, Commander, sorry.”

Michael processes the information, mentally checking off the reasons Philippa would have to be sorry for the situation: this does not differ much from the breakfast or work lunches she shares with the Captain which means…

“There is nothing to be sorry about, Philippa. I enjoy your company alone far more.”

Philippa beams back at her, beckoning her closer to the table now only occupied by two plates and sets of chopsticks.

Michael swallows, her suspicions making her mouth water, and spies Philippa, at the corner of her eyes, stifling her laughter.

“Please tell me you decided on Malaysian cuisine.”

“ _Dim sun_? _Kangkun Belacan_? Steamed rice? I’ve ordered some especially. I know you enjoy it. It’s too bad they cancelled, but I’ll have a selection sent to everyone’s room, don’t worry.”

She struts out of the main area with a bounce to her stride and comes back with a large self-heating container that she places beside the two sets on the table.

“It is not for them that I am worried,” Michael laments, only encouraging Philippa’s apparent glee.

“I didn’t know Malaysian cuisine was such a temptation to Vulcan restraint.”

 

II.

The most remarkable characteristic of Bolian funeral ceremonies is their length. It spans across six hours and, although beautiful and far from tedious, they constitute a challenge for any wealthy individuals, let alone for someone who is not Bolian and incapable of sustaining the following fast.

Diplomatic niceties do not carry much weight in the face of Michael’s stomach that, regularly, demandingly, for the past thirty minutes or so, has been growling in the ceremonial silence. There is only so much Michael can do to appease her hunger when she is trying to honour the memory of a Captain she only met twice.

Every so often, Lieutenant Troke, who served under the deceased for a while, casts curious glances in her direction, or rather the direction of her loquacious stomach, and Michael can tell Januzzi is going to have a field day when they come back to the Shenzhou. Philippa’s silence at their side, her focus on the center of the room where the last rituals are performed, spurns Michael into steeling herself for a little longer. Michael has never been more grateful for chanting than she is now.

At the end of the ceremony, the crowd drags them along out of the plaza for the procession and Michael lets out a desperate growl, ready to endure more, but a strong grip falls on her arm, jerking her in another direction. It is Philippa.

“Captain, we are going in the wrong—”

“No, I am done,” Philippa grumbles while she dashes toward the town centre at a vigorous pace. “Let Lieutenant Troke makes something up about Earth’s way of honouring the dead. I am starving and so are you.”

The top of Troke’s head is turned toward them, an amused expression painted on his features, before Philippa’s determined pace takes him out of their sight.

“Do you remember seeing any shop or restaurant open when we arrived?”

Michael shakes her head, taken aback by the turn of events. The neighborhood seems to be a residential one, with only a few apparent businesses and it is well into the evening. They had hoped to eat back aboard the Shenzhou after the ceremony, as Troke himself did not seem that keen on observing the fast.

They could, of course, beam back to the ship without Lieutenant Troke, but there goes another reason for Januzzi to endlessly tease her. Philippa’s grasp has now slid down to her wrist, a little more doubtful than it was five minutes ago. The buildings’ faces are charming, Michael has to concede while her guts let out another furious growl, even if they house an unhelpful succession of travel agency, real estate bureau, closed grocery store, tiny—

_Oh, no._

Philippa saw the same sign and halts immediately, letting Michael almost bump into her.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Philippa lets out a whistle, followed by a joyous chuckle. “Come on, Michael.”

“Philippa. No.”

“Michael. Yes.”

Philippa starts steering her toward the garish restaurant, so small it should be called a stall, the tugs on her arm restrained at first, but growing as Michael shows signs of weakness.

Logically, she knows they need sustainment after the lengthy chanting and that all indicates this is the only shop near-by open. Philippa’s idea is a sensible one, but really…

“I would rather not.”

Her stomach roars with renewed vigour and she groans.

“It’s the only one I can find, Michael.”

“There is no way this is going to be anything but appalling,” she warns Philippa who is still dragging her in the dreaded direction, from time to time turning her head to cast a reassuring glance at Michael.

“In my experience, never judge a restaurant by its window.”

“There is a pink neon sign inside. Pink!”

“But by the length of the queue.”

Philippa marches on, undaunted.

“There is objectively no one inside or outside.”

“Michael, someone died,” Philippa scolds, already pushing the doors covered in posters and stickers. “Beside, didn’t you tell me that the best way to assess the quality of a Vulcan restaurant is to smell their _saffirs_?"

Behind the counter, a diminutive woman is rearranging a few bowls of _lirs_ and _vranto_ salad in a refrigerated window, probably everything left at this hour. Michael has to admit that the smells coming out of the kitchen and hanging heavy between the understated tablecloths are not offensive, that the owner now coming closer to welcome them reminds her distinctly of Sarek’s aunt despite her suspiciously Bolian appearance, that Philippa seems elated at the prospect of trying her first Bolian-made Vulcan food and Philippa’s elation is a source of elation for herself.

This is almost nice.

While the shopkeeper exchanges a few words with Philippa, Michael’s brain, presented with the evidence of inaccurate holo-renditions of the S’Lara region on the walls, is fighting a lost battle with her now erupting stomach.

A gentle hand finds the small of her back and Philippa’s whisper is in her neck:

“Trust the boss? She married a Vulcan and her wife is the cook.”

 

III.

“We need to finish them tonight,” Michael concludes, somber, her fingers drumming on the only visible part of the table.

There was a time, approximately two hours and fifteen minutes ago, when Philippa’s quarters had looked like quarters and not the backroom of a spy organization trying to root out a mole. Philippa will certainly find paper transcripts between her sheets tonight.

Michael would like to present a few modernization ideas to the Caitian Chamber of commerce. Later. When they are done.

“This is not the hill I want to die on,” Philippa mutters while pouring herself another cup of coffee and gulping it down, backwards on a chair across the table.

Michael scoffs.

“Considering the amount of analogue paperwork on your table, there is a chance we will die _under_ something tonight.”

Philippa heaves a deep sigh and gets up, vigorously massaging her eyebrows, before going around the table and putting a hand on Michael’s shoulder.

“Wanna grab a bite before getting started on the Ferasian requests?”

Michael checks the time on the wall and loudly exhales as she realizes they missed the last service, a detail which has not escaped Philippa. She is already heading toward her replicator, entering the command allowing her to synthesize food.

“Captain’s privilege.” She looks over her shoulder at Michael and raises her eyebrows, prompting Michael to glare at her in answer and dive back to the sheets of paper and PADDs splayed before her. “What will you have?”

“The usual.”

“One vegetable broth with fruit yoghurt. _Okay_.” Philippa draws out the last syllable, dramatic, and Michael bites back a sarcastic remark, circling the defendant’s argument she was seeking and reporting it on her PADD. The familiar buzz of the replicator fills the silence and soon enough the comforting smell of hot food reaches her nose.

“You know the rules in this house.”

Michael chuckles under her breath.

There is a lull in the studious atmosphere, expressing itself through cutlery taken out, Philippa’s step moving around, away, nearer to Michael, her unexpected melodious hum and her free hand carefully filing away a stack of paper to place the plate in front of Michael.

Michael thanks her and concludes the reading of a paragraph before pushing the sheets aside and grabbing the plate as she leans back in her seat

Before her, Philippa is sitting astride, silently eating her perennial noodles, eyes skimming the document before her. Sporadically, she extends her hand out to the table and underlines a sentence or scribbles down a word in the margin, the container and fork maintained in a precarious position on the backrest.

Michael enjoys the companionable silence, only interrupted by the scratching sound the pens make on the paper and the forks on the metal. After a while, they discard the dishes on a chair and get back to work without a word exchanged.

A particular section of the Ferasan request draws Philippa to her side, yawning and stretching on the chair closest to Michael. Her hair, undone at this hour of the night, brushes against Michael’s naked arm regularly, keeping her awake more than the coffee. A sense of anticipation grows between documents shared, cups of coffee filled, notes compared, light hand pressures on her neck and when the digital clock strikes midnight Philippa lets out a triumphant Ah.

“We aren’t finished!” She jumps off her chair, full of spirit despite the late hour, and saunters away to the pristine sleeping area.

“If I were disingenuous, I would argue you stretched our work on purpose.”

Crouched down before a cupboard, hands foraging the depths, Philippa rocks back on her heels and expertly spins round to face Michael, with a dirty look that is barely this side of convincing.

“Show a little more respect for midnight snacks, Michael. It’s the first rule of command.”

Schooling her face to an impassive mask in this very moment is harder than understanding Caitian law and Michael is an expert in trying to understand Caitian law.

And she is becoming an expert in Philippa’s idiosyncrasies.

After a stop at the replicator for hot milk and some energetic mixing, Philippa carefully negotiates the tray back to Michael and, having put it down reverently between them, drops down on the chair with a flourish and leans on her elbows, staring at Michael.

The Captain’s seriousness throughout the process gets the better of her and Michael cannot stop a smile from stretching her lips, laughter from bubbling in her chest as Philippa, eyes on Michael, delighted smirk on the face, pushes the plate closer to Michael. The cocoa and biscuits come straight from Philippa’s secret stash and the authenticity of the scent is almighty.

“Come on, Michael.”

They have entered another part of the night not subjected to the Shenzhou’s usual laws. Michael is this close to ask her if she can stay the night and stretch this moment outside jurisdiction. Given the time their review of the Ferasan and Caitian embargo is taking, she might not have to ask at all.

“I will never grow tired of your enthusiasm for snacks.” At last, Michael wraps her hands around the cup, savouring the warmth under her fingers, the billows of liquid childhood caressing her face.

Philippa lifts a satisfied eyebrow as she grabs a biscuit that dutifully takes the first dip into her hot cocoa.

“I will never grow tired of your wonder over my enthusiasm.”

 

IV.

Pirates excel at crisis management. They initiated the crisis in the first place, but it is difficult not to be impressed by their swift organization of a parley with all the concerned parties.

The latter may have been taken against their will, but the parties are present and Michael has faith they can put the question of the autonomous Galatea canal to rest before the evening is over.

Naturally, optimism is easier to achieve when Philippa and a few crewmembers of the Shenzhou are relaxing in the bay viewing of one of the most famous pirate vessels of the Lara Nebula rather than fighting, verbally, physically, with an assembly of space rogues.

Michael squeezes in between the groups formed in the waiting area to find Philippa, leaning against the bay, ignoring the view for the determined study of her PADD. Michael nudges her aside to sit and fishes a lunch box out of her backpack, eliciting a disapproving grunt from her.

“We do not have time for this.”

“We still have to eat, Philippa.”

Philippa unfolds her legs and swings them over the edge to scoot closer to Michael, leaning in to argue out of earshot.

“After we are done with Captain Cerf’s introduction.”

“In _thirty_ minutes.” Michael shakes her head. “We have time and I will not have my Captain stand before an assembly of pirates with nothing in her stomach.”

Philippa glares at her as way of answer.

Michael’s voice drops. “Let alone my lover.”

Philippa’s eyebrows shoot up at the word and her head tilts to the side, mocking. Banter feels normal in a situation that is anything but.

“I thought I had been promoted to partner last week.”

“It is a pirate’s world. Lover has a nicer ring to it. As do caramelized onions with seitan over a base of mustard and honey.”

Philippa’s attention is thoroughly held by that point, the PADD shoved aside and the reasonable distance they are supposed to maintain in front of the crew all but forgotten. The lunchbox is less practical than Michael expected and opening it takes some maneuvering which distracts Philippa’s last reticent impulses for the length of the reveal.

So much for romantic initiatives.

“What is this?”

Michael opens the isotherm bags in her lap, awaiting Philippa’s reaction but her lover fails to recognize the content of the box much.

“Sandwiches,” Michael joyfully says, looking from the selection of bread to Philippa’s incredulous face.

“Why?”

“Because I looked up recipes and programmed the replicator specifically for them in preparation of dinner.”

Philippa seems lost to the contemplation of the sandwiches.

They are attracting attention, and not only the crew’s: the dozen of pirates who stayed behind and mingled are darting curious glances in their direction, although Michael cannot tell if it is the food or the undeniable proximity between Captain and First Officer.

Michael shakes herself and focuses on Philippa’s reverent study of the sandwich. Her eyes have a faraway look as if she had been transported back to another place and Michael knows the battle is won.

“I mean: why sandwiches?”

Michael bows her head, following Philippa’s careful unwrapping of the sandwiches. From the twitch of her lip, the way her mouth curves into a thin smile, what she finds is highly satisfactory.

“It is an Earth tradition of old that I wanted to try.”

“And you deemed these particular circumstances were ideal to try out old Earth food?”

Well, no. She did not anticipate a capture, or an emergency pirate gathering, or a crowded viewing bay where they have absolutely nowhere to isolate themselves from the rest of the crew. Thankfully, Detmer has taken her cues from Michael and is offering some of her personal snacks around the room, while Januzzi passes around bottles of unknown origin.

This dinner, however, is not for sharing. Michael wanted Philippa to enjoy a delicious break outside the Shenzhou. So Michael made it for Philippa and her.

Michael looks back at Philippa, only to find her searching her face, sandwich suspended before her mouth, features imbued with such open fondness it makes Michael’s heart skip a beat and lower her eyes briefly.

“When I planned my move, these particular circumstances had not manifested yet,” Michael whispers, trying to calm her heart. “They make for a grandiose backdrop.”

Philippa chuckles lightly, gratifying her with a nod, and finally bites into the bread as Michael holds her breath.

The hum coming out of her mouth is… something for which she wishes they were alone, but no one is paying attention to them anymore.

“It is delicious, Michael. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“You seem surprised.”

She is herself; cooking with a replicator is nothing but chemistry, yet no amount of logic can assuage her fear when she completes a recipe for Philippa.

Philippa finishes swallowing, the back of her hand covering her mouth, and cracks a smile at Michael.

“You are remarkable, but sandwiches are a form of art outside of cuisine. Although I have yet to find an art form at which you do not excel.”

Michael bites her lip, diving forward to retrieve a specimen for tasting.

“I can talk my way out of walking the plank; preparing excellent sandwiches is child’s play.”

“Oh, absolutely. The tongue is mightier than the mustard.”

Michael rolls her eyes and Philippa answers with a swift wink.

The carefully elaborated tastes blossoming in her mouth are all the more enjoyable that they are her doing. And Philippa’s undoing, judging by the way she is closing her eyes while chewing, an enthusiastic nod for good measure.

“Thank you, Michael.” She leans forward and Michael stiffens when she thinks a kiss may be coming in view of everyone, pirates and thieves alike. Yet Philippa brings her hand to Michael’s mouth, index pressing against her chin, thumb gently wiping her lower lip. “You have mustard on your lips, chef.”

“Mustard and honey, Philippa.”

This cook is getting a kiss whether the crew wants it or not.

 

V.

Through the fabric of her boots, Michael can feel the warmth of the dark sand that absorbed heat after a day-worth of sun. The temperature of the air is acceptable by Vulcan standards, which means it is hot for a Human, but the wind carries refreshing hints of moisture and salt from the sea. With each step taking her closer to the top of the dune, the high grass running along the edge reveals more of the deep blue and quiets its murmur to give way to the waves’. Philippa, two steps behind her, absently sings with the probe.

“And we are finished. It is not even 1900 hours,” Michael proudly announces when she reaches the top.

She inhales deeply the air charged with iodine and scans the breadth of sand at her feet. The drawings of the foam on the shore, with darker trails of seaweed glistening under the sun, offer a spectacular view and Michael understands why Philippa insisted on them taking this path. She cannot wait for her to see, even if this is the end of the road.

Below, a lighter surface catches her attention and Michael squints to define its shape.

“Philippa… There is an unidentified square fabric down there”

Philippa leaps across the last meter to reach Michael and plants her arms on her hips, swinging the probe over her shoulder to get it out of the way.

“Oh, good. The wind did not sweap it off.”

Lost, Michael stares at Philippa, who has the good sense to blush before her silent inquiry. The corners of her mouth curve up with excitement.

“You know when we talked about having a dinner date together some time? This is some time.”

Michael opens and closes her mouth, at a loss for words, which Philippa is clearly enjoying. With a tug, Michael is led down the gentle slope, through lonely bushes, to a thick white cloth secured by rocks.

“But dinner… How did you…”

Philippa’s grin grows an extra size and, throwing the probe on the cloth, she drops to her knees in the sand, digging five centimeters under the surface to reveal a sealed box. Michael swears the proud gleam in her eyes as she looks up is causing her palpitations.

“Lieutenant Gant helped me synthesize everything.”

There are many questions racing in Michael’s mind as Philippa guides her to the cloth and lowers her on the ground, where Michael sits cross-legged, still shocked.

“Did you calculate the time we needed to complete the survey so that we would end up here on time for dinner?”

“I did.”

Michael stares, flabbergasted, for a longer than it is acceptable for someone with her analysis skills and Philippa snorts.

“I cannot believe I have found a way to stun you out of speech.”

“What will Mr. Saru think if he does not see us coming back?”

Philippa removes the lid of the box and starts emptying its content, neatly cut fruits, salads and grain-based courses in small but mouth-watering portions.

“It was a rather long walk,” Philippa offers as an explanation with a wave of the hand. “I told him this area required very thorough mapping and that they were not to wait for us. We have forty five more minutes.”

Philippa winces at her own words and squints at Michael, aggrieved. “It’s not much.”

“It is enough,” Michael breathes, watching relief wash over her face as Philippa drinks in what Michael hopes to be her most grateful expression. “Thank you.”

Philippa shifts closer to Michael, giving her a quick, but thankful kiss on the lips, before handing her a plate with cutlery. They cuddle up close, instinctively, despite the heat and the effort of the afternoon, Michael marveling at the food Philippa managed to smuggle out of the ship and Philippa obviously reveling in her own deviousness.

“You are spoiling me, Philippa.” Her mouth is full of olives, tomatoes, garlic, peppers, mint, and… and… and if Michael did believe in such a thing as magic, she would characterize it as such.

It is beautiful chemistry.

“I am spoiling you. How unfair.” Philippa smirks. “Are you planning to do something about it? Report me? Commit a mutiny? Throw the comms away and leave me stranded with you on this beach for ninety years.”

“The last option is satisfactory.”

“I am a very good Captain, am I not?”

They try not to discuss shop and the mere attempt to avoid the subject makes the situation so utterly domestic that Michael has to hammer this is real and not just a dream. Ignoring just how lucky they are to snatch these moments makes them feel luckier for having them at all.

After a while, Michael is invited to recline on Philippa’s lap and Michael has half a mind to refuse because there is still a little of that delicious grain salad. But lying down is not a hindrance for kissing, on the contrary, so she caves in.

Michael knows she could eat the same food on the Shenzhou, given the proper programming of the replicator, but the taste of everything is enhanced by the feeling of Philippa underneath her.

With a little imagination, the familiar pattern of the uniform rubbing the back of her head becomes a simpler fabric, like linen or cotton; the regular bipping of the probe at their feet fades into the wind and the waves to take on the appearance of an alien song playing for them only; and Philippa butterfly touches, from the bottle of juice to her thigh, from her shoulder to the peppers salad, become kisses, embraces both indecent and casual.

There is no one to watch but the wind and a couple of grey birds Michael should be trying to get a good look at for scientific purpose. All she can see is Philippa’s face and the clear sky.

“Melon salad?”

Michael hums, considering her options. They must be on their way back to the Shenzhou soon. A relaxed, satisfied grin is holding Philippa’s lips half-open, plump, inviting.

“You taste sweeter,” Michael whispers and props herself up to meet Philippa, folded over her lap, to capture her lips, hungrier than she was thirty minutes ago. An explosion of sensations, tastes of freedom and acceptance, textures of passion and promises, fills her mouth and travels through her whole body before hitting her heart.

Here, in Philippa’s care, she feels nourished.

 

+1

They have a date in the sky.

The complicated mirror effects around them allowing the illusion and the chemically perfect non-alcoholic cocktail in their hand are both exquisite.

Michael and Philippa are studying the menu while finishing their drink, with Philippa pretending she is not following intently Michael’s expressions.

“So…” Philippa’s tone is cautious, almost professional. “How do you like it?”

Once the first shock of entering the highest restaurant in the galaxy passed, the curiosity and excitement elicited by the unique setting, a disagreeable sensation took hold of Michael, a mixture of impatience and discomfort. Michael has been trying her best to shake it off ever since and she failed to conceal it, although quite poorly given Philippa’s painfully neutral expression.

“Their vegetarian selection appears both refined and nourishing,” Michael marvels, but it sounds false even to her ears.

Philippa closes her menu with a dubious “uh” and uncrosses her legs under the table, sending her long dress brushing against Michael’s naked ankle and Michael represses a shiver.

There lies one of the issues she has with the setting: across the table of a high-end restaurant, they are too far apart.

“I’ve heard you dissect the component of Plomeek soup down to the molecules and make it sound like poetry. Is something wrong?”

Philippa’s tone is not accusatory, which only makes Michael more apprehensive about the deception she will bring to Philippa if she chooses to reveal her discontent.

The second issue is here too, close: she does not like lying to Philippa, not after everything they went through to be together. They are wasting time.

“You do not need to impress me, Philippa.” Michael leans closer, extending a hand to catch Philippa’s across the decidedly unpractical table.

“I wanted you to have a nice dinner with me at a beautiful location.”

“I appreciate the invitation, but you did not need to place a reservation in the most booked restaurant this side of the quadrant.”

Philippa’s quiet laughter is heavy with awkwardness, so unbecoming to her fearless face, even in this situation, that Michael flees her eyes for their hands clasped tightly on the tablecloth.

“Their quinoa and pumpkin steak is well-worth the wait, they say” comes her deadpan answer, but the tension in her voice is already shifting to something more accepting.

“I wanted to spend time with you, not the food.” Michael speaks softly, feeling both childish and justified in her sincerity.

This should not be an issue.

_Why does it feel like an issue?_

This is a test, for Michael, for Philippa and it appears that Michael is failing it.

A hand squeezes hers, calling her back to the restaurant, the dark sky all around them, the distant chatter from the other tables, the sweet smells from the cocktails lingering in the air, Philippa’s concerned, sympathetic crinkled forehead.

“Okay.” Philippa sighs, her expression suddenly distant, and Michael feels an urge to take her face between her hands and apologise because the last feeling she wants Philippa to experience tonight is disappointment.

Her eyes rest on Michael, pensive, and she inquires with a tilt of the head, “What do you have in mind instead?”

Michael blinks in surprise. Philippa does not exhibit a trace of the resentment Michael expected.

“You do not mind?”

“I planned a surprise for you and miscalculated. It happens. We don’t have the time to do things we don’t enjoy together, Michael. I don’t want this relationship to be a test. So…” A slow, deliberate smile appears on her lips, both tender and greedy. “How do you want to spend this evening?”

Something unleashes inside Michael.

She does not know why it makes her happy to be consulted over something as trivial as a romantic evening, to have her rebuttal be accepted so easily, to have her mistakes so casually embraced, but it fires something in her and all the dreams she had about a walk in the park or a bite at one of the small street-shops vanish before Philippa’s smile.

Being a Human raised on Vulcan accustomed her to fight for most of what she wanted, what she accomplished, what she was.

Being with Philippa feels like being the wind and the well, the tree drinking sun and water to grow tall, its branches unbound, its fruits without duty.

“Michael?”

Philippa’s apparent inability to read her in this very instant is comical.

She reaches for Philippa’s nape and bridges the gap across the table to kiss her, impatient, voracious, savouring the heat of her mouth after the cool cocktails and the dry awkwardness. Such personal display of affection must be rare in this location, and Philippa, in her haze, has the good sense to grope around for the potted tree adorning their room and shove it across the entrance to shield them from prying eyes. Michael has a lifetime worth of Vulcan disapproval as training, but she knows amateur gourmets are ruthless.

Philippa chuckles, breathless against her mouth, and breaks the kiss to cool her ardour, her hand gently pressing against her forearm, but the light, chaste kisses she leaves on Michael’s lips only make her heart melt faster, warmth pooling in her lower abdomen. Whether the dizziness Michael suddenly feels comes from the authentic sugar she tastes on her lips or her joy, she cannot tell.

Reluctantly, she gives up Philippa’s lips and sits back, if only to relieve her thighs from the awkward position

“Can we go now?”

The smile rewarding Michael is more stupendous than the sky they are dining in.

“When you like and where you like.”

Michael brings the hand she is still holding to her mouth and kisses it, reverently, as Philippa holds her gaze, the admiration there boundless until it morphs into a grimace.

Michael frowns inquisitively and Philippa gestures at the table. This time Philippa was the one to leave her chair to allow the kiss, forcing her into an uncomfortable squat.

“These tables are too damn large. Let’s take care of the bill and go.”

As they rush out of the restaurant, whispering in each other’s ears and still firmly holding hands, like children, their waiter hails them, worried.

“Ma’am? You are leaving without eating?”

“Oh, there will be plenty of eating tonight, thank you.”

“Philippa!”


	7. Glimmered (Michael/Philippa; Mutual Pining + Stranded Due to Inclement Weather)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very late, hence reckless, prompt-filling.
> 
> The title is a bad translation of Alina Orlova's song _Spindulėlis_.

Her bones are splitting.

Her retinas have stopped experiencing persistence a while back.

Her lower back burns with a pain so searing that she feels her body in two distinct parts. Cut in half and her heart is nowhere to be found.

When Michael rigged the control panel to redirect the remaining energy to the life support system, they lost the shuttle stabilisers and everything that technology has to offer to shield the pilot from the brute force of the wind.

Of course, Philippa assured her, the shuttle could be guided out of the storm, without electronics and by helm.

Their craft is not remotely made for lengthy low atmospheric flying but against all chances manages to work as a little more than a glider, cast aside by the unpredictable updrafts and downdrafts.

“You should never have been here,” she mutters between gritted teeth.

A hand lands on her forearm, light as a wave on the sand, and just as fugitive.

“Do you want me to take the helm?”

For five, ten seconds her eyes are glued to the rolling waves of lightning underneath them, the thundering deep that they very nearly did not escape thirty minutes ago. Hell is still around, above, inside. Watching Michael, sustaining her gentle and intelligent compassion, is beyond her at this point.

She _killed_ her.

“Captain, you have been in the pilot’s seat for too long. Let me.”

Her palm presses cool on the top of her hand, a truer plea than her steady but breathy voice, and it takes all of Philippa’s willpower to tear her eyes from the viewscreen.

There is just enough light coming from the storm and the bare-boned dashboard for Philippa to read Michael’s beautiful and haunting face.

_Hurt._

Even more so than after Philippa put back her dislocated shoulder in place. The sling around her arm is dirty, testimony to the frantic squirming in the shuttle’s belly that granted them a respite —a _delay_.

Looking away, Philippa bites back her anger and grips the helm like a vice.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You are in no state to fly.”

“ _Ridiculous_ would be used to characterize persisting to fly in your state. Not mine.”

There is a smile in her breath and Philippa could cry from the relief it brings her despite the circumstances.

“Your hands are shaking the helm more than it is making you quiver,” Michael remarks pointedly, with an edge of annoyance. “You have not rested since this last night, and your actions at the peak, albeit noble, were unnecessarily reckless, as well as physically demanding.”

She is right, of course, and more guilt seeps into her exhausted nerves, her ravaged muscles.

Swallowing her pride, casting aside her culpability, making room for support, even if it comes from Michael, will make the situation better, will help their odds.

It will help _Michael_ , ultimately.

The brush of Michael’s fingers below hers around the helm, always steady, always careful, finishes to convince her. The sparks they elicit at the tip of her heart finish to scare her away.

With great difficulty, hindered by her weariness as much as her shame, she shifts on the seat, out of it, and a grateful sigh rewards her.

Philippa screws her eyes shut and staggers around the pilot’s seat to take Michael’s place, “You tell me the second you experience weariness in your arm.”

“I will not, Captain.” Face shut in concentration and spine ram-rod, Michael spares her a quick, mismatched look that Philippa fails to interpret. “You need to rest.”

How fun it will be to engage in the same charade that Michael put on just now to get her to step down in a couple of hours — _if they are still here in a couple of hours._

Brightly set alight at random by lightning, her commander’s profile is immaculate and focused, impenetrable. Philippa is thankful for the barrier, for once.

Her eyes wander, roam the sea of clouds underneath them, and the comm link left open remains silent, wistfully blinking in the dark. Unless Saru orders the _Shenzhou_ to leave its post on the ground and search for them, they are alone. There are protocols, and the safety of the colony they evacuated from the heights takes precedence, over their Captain, over _Michael._

Even if they had enough energy to leave the atmosphere, the _Dirac_ has left for Station 359 by now, and the engines would shut down long before the _Shenzhou_ could find them in orbit. Their only option is for the storm to lose strength and let them land on their own.

_Two conditions too many._

The clouds can open to reveal the sea, infinite and unforgiving, or the sharp mountain ranges that Michael was admiring just a few hours ago. They will be lost.

Michael will be lost.

Philippa has killed her.

And this is not how she imagined they would go out, crashing and drowning, deathly silent out of exhaustion. An hour ago, she would have used what little energy she had left to talk to Michael, really talk to her, about how loved she is and how grateful Philippa is to count her as her friend, to rely on her as her Second. But an hour ago, there was hope, logic, bloody _energy_.

No panic is left in Philippa’s heart, but a pit of lassitude and bitterness.

And she cannot even have the comfort of telling Michael just how important she has become, as a friend, as a companion. How simple to let herself be filled with the agreeable feelings Michael naturally invokes when she is around, and by the stars, are they welcome now. How treacherous too.

Philippa doesn’t trust her heart this high in the air, this frantic in her chest.

To steady her hands, she idly checks the comm link, fiddling with the frequency and range, “Perhaps the _Dirac_ can still read us.”

“We are more likely to get picked by the locals.” Her voice is blank, and Philippa closes her eyes not to shatter. “Their radio technology is more advanced than one could presume from their aircrafts.”

No one is coming for them.

The push to comfort her is immense at this point, but what she has to offer, in her state of exhaustion, would likely embarrass her and hurt their friendship.

“Although, I do not know if they can record us,” Michael adds distantly.

Philippa has been at the other end of such communications; sensors down, oxygen dwindling and nothing but the stars to catch the spacecraft when it goes down. Some joke, some get philosophical. All leave a message for their loved ones. She never disconnects; even if the message in question is deeply personal, even when she can hear the controls dying out of her reach. She witnessed, she recorded, she _relayed_.

But Philippa has no message for Nikos, or Joey, or Kat, or Anton. She has one for Michael.

Who is right here and casts worried, _professional_ looks at her.

It should be a relief that when they run out of power and Philippa will break, either by failing to reassure Michael and crashing into herself for good or by flushing down the vacuum of space their friendship, no record will exist.

What a terrible, pitiful way to end her life; voiceless and useless to the one she cares the most for.

Were she younger, freer, _different_ , there would be no shame in seeking the comfort she craves, to give and to receive.

If she says what she wants to say —to confess— to Michael, Michael will die, because then Philippa would not bear to function, to carry on after that.

Instead, Philippa whispers, head resting on the back of the seat, “I am sorry I dragged you into this.”

“We will get out.” There is no reproach in Michael’s voice, not even worry, but the horizon is still dark, closed.

Philippa snorts, bitter, “No statistics to back that up, eh?”

“But I have you. I will take you over statistics on most days.”

Something pulls Philippa out of her study of the ceiling. Michael’s eyes. Shining and profound as stars. The rawness across her face takes her breath away for a second before she remembers to follow the script.

“Just most days?”

Unwavering, Michael nods, “I trust you with my life. And if it is not enough Philippa, know that you are esteemed, always, and that nowhere does this affection manifests itself more profoundly than in our—”

She hesitates, a flicker of something making her lips quiver, and Philippa frowns even before she concludes “—bond.”

It sounds like an interrogation. Philippa fixes her gaze on her, attentive to the curve of her brows and the steadiness of her breath, as Michael is focused on the dark sky ahead. She follows the evolution there for a while, trying to decipher the message in her features, despite the lightning growing scarce, because with all her heart she wishes to find something, if only the knowledge that Michael _knows_ and is willing to accommodate to bring _her_ comfort.

Fuck. She is tired. She loves her so much. And she is sorry for both.

She will not say anything; this would mean this is the end. And voicing those feelings would open a door right before it is destroyed. She cannot bear to have this be the end.

Tonight, she is saving Michael’s life.

She thinks, not hard or long enough, but for the first time in a while with the familiar passion that warranted Michael’s _esteem_ earlier.

“I have an incredibly reckless and physically demanding idea that might get us down in one piece.”

Michael’s smile opens on her lips like a drop of water on the ground, precious, faultless, life-sustaining, and Philippa thanks the gods Michael is saving her life yet again.

“As long as it does not involve you sitting back into the pilot’s seat.”

Like that, the emptiness is lifted off her chest, and if this new-found corporeality doesn’t alleviate the pain in her back it replenishes her energy, her will. She gets up to head to the back of the shuttle in search of the items she will need, but a hand stops hers at the wrist, sliding down immediately to nest itself between her fingers.

Looking back, Philippa finds Michael’s calm smile, silent but cognizant.

Requesting something.

Philippa huffs with quiet joy and squeezes her fingers, “I am grateful you are here with me tonight, Michael, and always.”

“As I am that you are, Philippa.”

Were she different, she wouldn’t have Michael by her side now. And this is everything.


End file.
